


Pillow Talk

by TheIcyQueen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Sharing a Bed, sometimes you just have a real bad week and write shmoopy crap to make yourself feel better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen
Summary: The suite in the Hanged Man had always just been his, frequented by many, perhaps, but occupied by one. That was always how it had been.And yet, there was Hawke.





	Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in this fandom for YEARS. I realized I've never actually...written for it. So. Here we go. Let's give this a spin, huh.

It was difficult to say what woke him. By all accounts, there didn’t _seem_ to be a reason…well, at the _very_ least, he couldn’t hear any of the telltale banging or cursing that would suggest Corff was preparing to open the Hanged Man. Maker knew that was _usually_ what did it—Corff dropping something heavy and then Norah’s high, shrill laughter. Occasionally there would be heavy footsteps outside his door, signaling some poor sod looking to sleep off a night of bad decisions couldn’t remember which room was theirs.

There was _none_ of that, though, and wasn’t that the damnedest thing. His thoughts were still thick and sticky with sleep, so he was content enough to shrug it off, roll over, and get another hour or so. After all, it was only a matter of time before _someone_ was knocking on his door in earnest, looking for something, needing something, wondering something, or…something. There was just always _something_. It came with the territory. So with a quiet grumble, he rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his face to block out the low light from the room’s lanterns, and…

Paused when he heard a rustling of the sheets that most _certainly_ had not been his doing.

He dropped the arm from his eyes, everything finally breaking through the cottony haze of his mind _just_ as he turned towards the sound. Memories of the night before clicked into place, forming the rough outline of a narrative.

Well…shit. That answered the question of what woke him up, at least.

It had been a good while since Varric had woken up to someone else in his bed—now, _how_ long exactly, he wasn’t one to dwell on, but the fact remained. The suite in the Hanged Man had always just been _his_ , frequented by many, perhaps, but occupied by _one_. That was _always_ how it had been.

And yet.

And yet, there was Hawke.

She’d tied her hair back before settling in to sleep, he remembered, though it seemed to have come undone at some point or another, a dark lock of it hanging down in front of her face, fluttering with each breath. It was strange, really, to see her features so softened by sleep—without the toothy smirk, the waggling eyebrows, she nearly looked like a different person. Certainly _this_ wasn’t the scourge of Kirkwall, the thorn in _everyone’s_ side, the fearsome smuggler-turned-sellsword-turned…what exactly? “Errand girl” didn’t _quite_ have the nuance he was looking for, even if most of the shit Dumar had her doing _was_ little more than a running list of glorified political chores.

No, like that, hair tousled and cheek smashed into a pillow, Hawke looked like…a person. A refugee tired of running. A young woman trying to live her life. A friend.

A friend who was apparently having one hell of an unpleasant dream, by the sounds of it. Her brow wrinkled as she shifted, burrowing her face deeper into the pillow with what might’ve been a sigh, might’ve been a word, followed close on its heels by an abrupt intake of breath.

Yeah. Definitely not the sort of thing one would expect from Kirkwall’s premier stabber.

Varric reached over to prod at the lump she made under the covers, surprised and maybe just a _little_ pleased to see how small the gap between them was. They had most definitely gone to sleep on opposite sides of the bed. Oh, how the times had changed. These were exciting times they were living in. “Hawke.”

Another mumble, her voice too muted by pillow fluff to be understood.

“ _Hawke_.”

The shape of her rose and fell with a heavy breath, and then there was a brief pause. “Mmmyup. Yup. Here. Up. S’wrong?” Propping herself up on her elbows, Hawke glanced around the room eyes narrow and bleary. She hung her head, rubbing her face sleepily in an attempt to wake herself up. “Problem?” she mumbled, blinking hard once or twice before turning her attention to him.

He snorted a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “ _I_ should probably be the one asking _you_ that.” She blinked down at him, obviously not comprehending, and he offered her a smile that likely came across as more pitying than he’d intended. “Nightmare?” He averted his gaze as he asked it, making a grand show of covering a yawn. 

Even so, he could see the way her face changed from the corner of his eye. Confusion, realization, shame, each flickering so quickly that they would’ve doubtlessly been lost on most people. To the untrained eye, it might’ve simply seemed Hawke had taken a moment to grasp what he was saying before she reacted. But Varric Tethras was just about as trained as eyes came, _particularly_ when it came to his friends. _Particularly_ when the friend in question was Hawke.

And just like that, some invisible switch was flipped. Hawke’s Hawke-mask snapped firmly back into place, covering up all the tiny soft spots and vulnerabilities sleep had brought to the surface. “Oh, yeah, sorry. It was _dreadful_ , you have no idea.” She sank back down onto her stomach, folding her arms overtop the pillow before setting her head down as well. “I don’t think you know how lucky you are, not having to deal with dreams.”

“That so?”

“ _Truly_ ,” she drawled, voice still low but wrought with the sharp melody it always seemed to take on when she was amusing herself. “Terrible dream. Very sorry if I woke you.” Yawning widely, she closed her eyes, nestling into her arms. “Won’t do it again. Promise.”

He watched her for a moment before sucking a disbelieving breath through his teeth. “That’s it, huh?” he asked, his own voice thick and rasped.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you people normally…I don’t know, talk it out or some shit when you have nightmares? Isn’t that part of the process?”

Face half-buried in the pillow, Hawke had to _really_ contort her expression to feign insult. “I’m not entirely sure I appreciate the way you just said ‘you people,’ Varric.”

“Oho, and so she avoids the question. Interesting! Interesting.”

Hawke shifted only enough to tiredly flick him a choice couple of fingers. “Is that how it goes in your books?” she teased, unable to stifle another yawn. “Do you want me to swoon while I recount the whole sordid tale? I think I left my handkerchief at home, so I may need to borrow one if you’re expecting me to clutch one to my heaving bosom.”

He laughed aloud at that, reaching up to rake his fingers through his hair. “Everyone’s a fucking critic. Fine, _don’t_ tell me. Was only trying to be polite about your weird _human_ habits.” It had only occurred to him as the dozy haze lifted from his mind that if he had been bad _enough_ , she wouldn’t _want_ to talk about it. And knowing Hawke as well as he did…that seemed uncomfortably likely. Andraste’s _tits_ , he was out of practice with this kind of shit.

But Hawke simply lifted a hand and waved him off, sighing musically through her nose. “Well. If you _must_ know, it _was_ horrendous. Truly monstrous. I dreamt Mother had somehow managed to betroth me to—and before you begin screaming and spouting blood from your ears, please remember that you _needed_ to know this—none other than one _Prince_ Sebastian Vael.” At that, she dramatically propped herself up again to shake her head in an exceptionally mournful manner. “Everyone kept offering me these crackers with slimy things on top, and those _terrible_ …oh what are they called…those little finger sandwiches with the vegetables in them. Eugh. I had to be fitted for a dress, too, but the seamstress was Isabela, as it turned out, and she convinced me to just go naked. Oh, how the guests _laughed_.” She snickered to herself, shrugging her shoulders tightly up towards her chin. “Oh no. I just had the _worst_ thought…Varric, what if it turns out to be a _prophetic_ dream?!”

“Hawke, now, think about what you’re saying. You and I _both_ know Choir-Boy’s already _happily_ married. To…well now, wait. Is it Andraste or the Maker? I always forget. I know he’s explained, but I swear, when he starts talking I think I black out. Some sort of defense mechanism, probably.”

“I think it’s probably both of them. I mean Andraste’s the Maker’s bride, right? So if Sebastian’s in on that, then…both? Both. Has to be.” She frowned contemplatively, lips pursing as she tried to puzzle it out. “But I suppose you’re right—it couldn’t possibly be prophetic. I’d _never_ be able to ruin such an ideal marriage. I don’t hold a _candle_ to Andraste.”

“Nor _should_ you.” He grinned even as he said it, knowing full well how awful it was. “By all reports, the woman is _incredibly_ flammable.”

Hawke laughed, the sound bright and clear in the quiet room, and something in Varric’s chest gave a pleasant lurch. “By _all_ reports,” she agreed, resting her cheek against her shoulder as she looked at him. There was an instant, brief though it was, where he thought he saw that flicker again, Hawke’s Hawke-mask faltering just so. It was gone in a heartbeat, but most of the cheer had left her eyes in its wake. “Bethany,” she said as casually as she could manage, the revelation accompanied by a nod of exhausted acceptance. She shrugged again, as though to _ensure_ it was clear she wasn’t _really_ that upset or bothered or sad or much of _anything_ , keeping her sister’s name a bare statement of fact.

He’d suspected as much, had been all but _positive_ that had been the case when she came out of the gate with her detailed joke about Vael, but _damn_. That didn’t make it better. Didn’t make it _easier_. For once in his grand and storied career, Varric couldn’t quite think of what to say.

And shit, he’d been trying to come up with something for a good, long while. Since the expedition, really. But the efforts had been redoubled last night, when Hawke’s usual drink had turned to two, to three, when her usual laughter had been tempered by long stretches of uncharacteristic silence, when she’d spent more time staring vaguely into her stein than at the cards in her hand—she’d lost to _Anders_ , of all people, and that’d been when Varric _knew_ something was well and truly fucked to hell and back. So when the Hanged Man had begun to empty out and all of their friends had said goodnight and Hawke was _still_ quiet, he’d asked. She’d told. After all, he wasn’t exactly a stranger to familial turmoil, and if anyone was bound to understand, it was him.

The estate had been good for the Hawkes, if only because it meant mother and daughter didn’t have to rely solely on the metaphorical walls between them—now there were real, literal, physical ones too. The thick sort, at that. Still, though he could only suspect the cause, he gathered that the fight with Leandra had been bad enough that Hawke had spent the better part of the day dreading returning to Hightown for the night. It had been then, of course, that he’d reminded her that his palatial suite was _her_ palatial suite, if she only said the word.

She’d taken him up on it. And, well…there they were in the aftermath of it all, and there he was, still without an inkling of how to say the million things he wanted to say, let alone the things she probably needed to hear. He hummed quietly in acknowledgement, the corners of his mouth tucking inwards as he flipped through his internal repertoire of platitudes.

Before he could say—or not say—anything further, Hawke let out another low laugh, dropping her head into her hands. “That about settles it, doesn’t it?” Her fingers smoothed her hair back and she seemed to realize in that moment that she’d managed to lose the strap she’d tied it back with. She ruffled the hair in her face with a curt breath upwards, rolling her eyes in defeat. “I’m the _worst_ houseguest you could have, aren’t I? It’s fine, you can be brutally honest, I can take it. You kindly, _generously_ , offer me a place to stay for the night, and how do I repay you? I wake you up and then ruin your sacrilegious joking by getting grim and dour over…something that happened months and months ago.” She scooped her hair back before letting it fall around her face again. “Maybe this is why I never get invited anywhere.”

“You never get invited anywhere, Hawke, because most people don’t particularly enjoy washing blood out of their upholstery.”

“I _do_ tend to track it in wherever I go, don’t I?”

“And for your information,” he continued, raising his voice slightly to talk over her. “You happen to be my _preferred_ houseguest. Er, suiteguest.”

“ _Bedmate?_ ” she tried, raising her eyebrows lasciviously, fluttering her eyelashes.

Varric seesawed his hand in the air above his chest. “Eh…”

“Very nice. Very kind of you. You know what? I rescind my apology. I’m _glad_ I woke you up.” Even in the low light of the room, her grin was obvious, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way they did. Hawke cocked her head to the side, the shape of her mouth slowly softening as she fixed him with a look he couldn’t even begin to parse.

All at once, Varric was again acutely aware of how little space was between them. He could _almost_ feel Hawke’s arm against his, could _certainly_ feel the sleepy heat radiating off of her. The part of his mind devoted to words and plots and character dynamics recognized the scene as a familiar one, knew a meaningful look when it saw one, but that couldn’t be right. …Could it?

“What?” he asked when it became too much, when he started to realize what it was.

Hawke just shook her head. “Thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime.”

“Yeah, well, most of mine _are_.” She smiled again, momentarily pulling her lower lip between her teeth. Her eyes moved down to his mouth, looked away, went right back.

He knew exactly what was about to happen, but there was still a moment where it didn’t click, didn’t make sense. And then Hawke was kissing him, her lips soft and warm, pressing almost _tentatively_ to the corner of his mouth, and _that_ couldn’t be right, because Hawke never did _anything_ tentatively.

For fear of her pulling away, he slid a hand up behind her head, bringing her closer to him, deeper into the kiss. The sheets rustled unimportantly with her movement, and he felt one of her hands cup his cheek, felt his own slide down towards the small of her back.

After a moment that stretched on like an eternity, Hawke pulled back—not far, not far at all, close enough in fact that her lips brushed his as she spoke. “See? Worst houseguest. You give me a place to stay and return the favor with…” she took a moment to think about it, her usual wit slowed and clearly distracted by their proximity. Something Varric noted, duly, and filed away for later use. “…unsolicited romantic overtures.”

“Oh is _that_ what that was?” His hands were still in her hair, still on her back, and he found himself unable to think of much else outside how perfectly their bodies seemed to fit together like that, and how he’d never noticed how beautiful Hawke was in red until he saw her under his sheets.

She considered him for a second, or at least he _thought_ she did—mostly she was continuing to watch his lips. “ _I_ should probably be the one asking _you_ that,” she muttered. If Hawke didn’t find her answer in the way he brought her back down against him, she found it in the rasp of his stubble against her palm.

Outside, there was a distant clang followed by some garbled curse from Corff as he set about opening shop. In no time at all, the Hanged Man would slowly begin to fill up with the regular crowd, meaning it was only a matter of time before someone came knocking, needing _something_ from him, like they always did.

But Varric made an executive decision here and then as Hawke nipped his lower lip and tugged the sheets higher: Everyone could—and _would_ —manage without him for a day.


End file.
